Your best friend had managed to find the kind of man people write stories about — tall, steady, and effortlessly magnetic. Simon Riley was all quiet strength and sharp eyes, a gentleman in every sense of the word. He held doors, remembered birthdays, stood too close when danger was near — and every time he smiled at her, you felt your chest tighten.

You told yourself it was admiration, nothing more. But that wasn’t true. You’d fallen for him, hopelessly and quietly, in all the ways you shouldn’t have. Because he was hers. Because he’d never be yours.

Even when their relationship started to crack, you stayed loyal. You told yourself you’d never cross that line — not even if they broke up. Not even if he looked at you the same way you looked at him.

But when your phone rang that night, your best friend sobbing through the receiver, everything inside you twisted. He had broken up with her. The right thing to feel was sympathy, heartbreak, outrage on her behalf — but beneath all that was something else, something traitorous: relief. A pulse of wild, guilty hope that you couldn’t silence.

Half an hour later, after you’d soothed her through tears and whispered reassurances you weren’t sure you believed, the house fell quiet. You sat there, staring into the dim light of your living room, heart still thudding from everything unsaid.

Then — a knock.

Soft at first, then firmer. You hesitated, crossing to the door with a strange, breathless certainty curling in your stomach. When you opened it, the world outside was a blur of rain and streetlight.

Ghost stood there.

No mask. No umbrella. Just rain dripping from his lashes, his jacket clinging to him like he’d walked miles to get here. His eyes met yours — dark, unreadable, and yet full of something you’d never seen before.